Crying Skies
by HarvestMoonRacoon
Summary: Gaara loved it when it would rain even though it never really washed anything away. Drabblish Gaara Angst.


Author's Note: Gaara angst is a lot harder than it looks to write. I've been meaning to write something like this for, uh, ever. Well, anyway, enjoy.

It never rained in the desert.

The first time Gaara had ever seen water drops fall from the sky, he'd frozen in mid-step. Pure terror washed over him at the racing of this thoughts. He was sure the sensations of droplets falling on him was an assault: an attack on his personal space that had somehow slipped past his hair-trigger defenses.

Surely these strange, unknown pricks of coldness had to be threatening. Gaara had spent most of his life in fear, so it was an odd sort of normal for him to be frightened of a natural occurrence such as a freak shower. Shudders had rippled up his spine as the ice-cold droplets splattered onto his chalky hands, soaked his crimson hair into a wet mat, and slid down his face like fat teardrops. It had to be a threat. He needed to take cover. Ready silt for attack. Fight back-

Still, he had been unable to move, paralyzed in half-prose with wide eyes transfixed to a world bleeding away in the vertical slant of this- this terrifying, he didn't know what to call it.

And than some freak in a green jumpsuit had come twirling by, asking if Gaara was enjoying a Youthful romp in the rain, and that had quickly sent Gaara's head spinning.

The boy had heard of rain before. It was something, something that hadn't happened in Sunagakure in years. The dry, arid desert hadn't heard the roaring of lightning or the roiling of rain sheets in such a long time- It seemed an impossible thing, the falling of water from the clouds.

And yet, Gaara had seen it, felt it. Water droplets ran rivulets down his skin, soaking his clothes until they stuck to his thin, gangly frame, and made hollow, plittering noises against the gourd on his back.

And with that small squall, something inside of him began to melt away.

He'd tilted his face skyward, feeling his thoughts swirl like the charcoal clouds above him. Gaara had a way of observing, constantly being the reverse side of reverse. This had numbed him into something of a thinker, and this little rainstorm didn't fit in the small, mental world he'd created from his own thoughts.

But, he'd still smiled, and still strolled around in a state of confusion and delight until the clouds drifted away to reveal a bright and familiar sun.

Now, when a downpour began to sound on the tin roof of his home, he and his broken mind were the first ones outside.

There was a freshness, the crisp taste of forgiveness with every drop that fell from the sky. In a miracle of the heavens crying, Gaara liked to think, as he always did. The rain washed away the accumulated layers of dust on every building in the arid city, and speckled the dusty sand with it's gentle touch. It bared his home to it's original shades and forms, and did away with the facades built up by years of weather-wear and vandalism.

In this newness, there was more than an ecstasy that sent the normally decorum teenager into a wild dance through the streets of his village. There was a sparkling flicker of hope.

He opened his mouth to catch the arctic droplets while gales of frozen wind lashed at his outstretched arms. There was hope in something as small as a summer rainstorm.

Maybe, if heaven's tears washed the dirt from the outer walls of a house, maybe it could wash away other things, too. Maybe it could wash away the memories of a mother he never knew; maybe it could wash away the feeling of a village's judging eyes. Maybe it could strip away the layers of numb hate, and let the Phoenix of what was Gaara's shattered soul rise from the ashes of his broken heart.

He splashed in the puddles created by the divots in the street corners, and spun in wild circles through the watery ground until he thought he would vomit from dizziness.

Maybe there was a spark of life inside of him that needed a drizzle of water to come back to life.

Maybe the sky was crying on his village, his nation, his world. Maybe it was weeping for a universe so lost in torrents of blood that it didn't know who to blame.

Whatever the reason, Gaara was nearly mad for a chance to rid himself of the guilt that seemed to weigh as much as the world on his spine-splintered shoulders. Redemption was all he needed. Didn't they see that?

But, like a cheap drug, the rain only lasted so long. In a matter of hours, sometimes minutes, the clouds parted to reveal the dry desert sun, and the ground became ashen and dusty again. Sopping wet, the last taste of summer rain would trickle between Gaara's thin lips as they curled into a smile.

Every volley of icy projectiles against his pale skin was beating a tattoo into his core. Every raindrop was something to cauter the pain, and even though a few minutes of the sky crying didn't erase dynasties of feuding and antagonism, it was a patch job for someone who was the climax of his country's ill will towards it's enemies. It was peeling the layer of himself that everyone who despised him saw back, to reveal the person Gaara knew he was inside. Or, at least he prayed was inside.

For a few short minutes, he was alive and free of the judgment of people who didn't even know him.

But, those faces never changed, and once he was dry and striding through the streets of the village once more, there was judging and hate in the eyes of every citizen. He wanted that little flicker of hope so desperately that he always pretended that he didn't see them, that things really had changed. In desperation, he would turn away so that they didn't see his ice-colored eyes well with tears.

Perhaps it never really did rain in the desert, and perhaps they never really stopped judging him. It wouldn't be the first time Gaara had imagined something.

A/N: Ending… sucked. Yes, I know. Still, review, please.


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